


Routines

by WellReadPenguin



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellReadPenguin/pseuds/WellReadPenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I love you and either that's enough or it isn't." When waiting isn't enough and their partnership ends, everything changes. So Rick Castle takes solace in the little things that don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: "Castle" and all its wonderful characters are the property of ABC and Andrew Marlowe. Much as I enjoy playing with them, I unfortunately do not own them. Please don't sue me.

He can see her on the street below as she walks away from his building. Hair waving in the wind, shoulders huddled against the harsh cold. Beautiful and strong, even now.

He puts his hand on the window, each fingertip pressed tightly to the cool pane. His forehead follows suit and he sighs, his breath fogging a circle on the glass.

_"I can't wait anymore Kate. I can't keep living with my life on hold. I can't keep navigating this limbo you've put us in." ___

He straightens, shakes off the chill of her presence, puts on his game face and steps back from the window unwilling to watch her turn the corner for the final time. He can survive without her. He must survive without her.

_"Castle, pl-please don't-" she pleads. ___

The clock calls him to sleep even though he feels no desire to dream. It's just the habit that forces him across the room towards his bathroom. He goes through the routine just like he did yesterday. As though nothing has changed even though the opposite is true.

_"I've been patient. Waited for that wall to come down. But Kate, I don't think it ever will. There's always something in the way." ___

He sheds his clothes with deliberate care. First his shoes, which he sets back in the void on the floor of his closet. Next his blue button-down shirt and black slacks, which still smell like a precinct he will likely never again visit, are dropped into the laundry basket, followed quickly by his black dress socks. He digs into his chest of drawers for a pair of plaid pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt. He pulls them on with practiced ease, reveling in their soft warmth.

_"And your mom's case? We just keep going down the hole deeper and deeper. There's no end. Can't you see that?" ___

He pads barefoot into the bathroom and reaches for his toothbrush, applies a helping of toothpaste and begins the ritual cleaning. He knows these things by heart and there is solid comfort in that. Life goes on. It must.

_"You've invested your life, everything you have, in solving her murder. And as a result there's no room for me there. There's no room for her and us...But it doesn't have to be that way." ___

Back and forth the brush goes, emitting the familiar sound of nylon bristles scratching on enamel. This has not changed. He bends over to spit. With a flick he twists the faucet open, cupping a handful of water which he slurps up and swishes around in his mouth. Tomorrow this will not change. He spits out the remaining toothpaste and saliva. He runs his tongue over his pearly smooth teeth with pride. Then he sets his toothbrush and toothpaste back in their regular spots, where they were this morning and last night and where they will be tomorrow morning and tomorrow night.

_"Montgomery said that life is about picking your battles. And Kate, here's where I make my stand." ___

He squirts a pump of face wash into his hands and dabs it on his cheeks. When he rubs it into the soft skin he can feel the beads cleanse his pores. This soap has a refreshing tingle and he relishes the way it scours his skin. A splash of water removes the suds and he blindly reaches for a towel to wipe the residue away.

_"I love you. I love you and either that's enough or it isn't." ___

He pauses to look at himself in the mirror. Five o'clock shadow accentuates his pale complexion, but he looks otherwise unharmed. This will not change. He replaces the towel on the rack neatly. Then heads back into his bedroom with purpose. He flicks off the lights on his way and climbs into bed. Slipping beneath the cool blue sheets, he nestles into a comfortable position and closes his eyes. This will not change either.

_"Rick..." she strains. ___

Tomorrow he will wake and the reality of his decision will hit him when there is no text or call summoning him to her side at a crime scene.

_"Is it? Is it enough?" ___

When he brews his coffee and has no need to prepare a second cup.

_"Rick please..." ___

When he stares at the emptiness of his loft and realizes that he has nothing to do. Nowhere to be. No one to see. When he opens his laptop to an empty screen and realizes that there is nothing left to write about.

_"I'm sorry Kate. I'm so sorry." ___

When he realizes that it's time to start all over. Without her.

But for now, he has his routines. With or without her, he has his routines. Life goes on. The little things remain, will always remain. And that is a small comfort at least.


	2. Catatonic

She doesn't know how she made it down the elevator.

She doesn't know how she made it down the street.

She doesn't know how she made it past the subway turnstile.

She doesn't know how she managed to catch the right train.

She doesn't know how she got off on the right stop.

She doesn't know how she made it to her front door.

She doesn't know how she put the right key in the door nob.

She doesn't know how she made it home.

But she is home, collapsed on her bed, still in her heavy winter coat and scarf, still in her work slacks, still with gloves on her hands and high-heeled boots on her feet.

She lies face down on top of the covers. Catatonic. She can't think. She can't feel. She can't do anything but stare across the room at the painting which she can see through her open bedroom door. The painting of the woman in the purple coat, illuminated by moonlight, all its grays and purples and blues swirling into a chaos she can relate to. She doesn't move. She can't move. She stares and gets lost in the color. And somehow she sleeps.

She wakes to the buzzing of her phone in her pocket. A call from Esposito.

A body has dropped in New York City, not just her own. But she can't do normal today. She can't go to work and pretend that nothing is wrong. She can't accept that life goes on.

She answers and tells him she's taking a personal day. She hangs up and drops the phone to her bedside table.

Fifteen minutes later the phone buzzes again. It's Lanie.

She doesn't answer. Can't talk right now. Won't talk right now.

A minute after that her apartment phone rings. And rings. And rings. And rings.

She makes no move to quiet it. She just stares across the way at the woman in the purple cloak, the eclipse blotting out the sun.

"Hi, you've reached Kate Beckett. I'm unable to answer the phone right now so please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you," her own voice echoes across the room. Too normal. Too ordinary.

Soon Lanie's voice carries through. "Sweetie, I just talked to Javi, he said it sounds like something's up? Give me a call back, he's worried about you and so am I."

Silence descends on the apartment. Lanie calls twice more. Then nothing.

Her eyes remain fixed on the woman in the purple coat, the planes falling out of the sky.

The light shifting across the room is the only indication that the day is moving on without her. Time might as well be standing still in her head. All she can see is the woman in the purple coat, the crying baby abandoned on the bridge.

When the light from the window has almost faded, there's a knock on the door She hears a muffled voice calling her name. But she makes no move to answer the call.

It doesn't matter. Lanie has a key and she can hear her using it to force her way in.

"Beckett? Kate?" she calls from the threshold before walking in and moving into sight at the bedroom door.

She looks right through her, still intent upon the woman in the purple coat, the flower petals at the mercy of the unforgiving wind.

"Kate honey, I talked to Castle, what happened?"

She feels the bed dip as Lanie sits beside her and places a hand on her shoulder, leaning over to get a better look at her face.

"Sweetie, talk to me, please."

"I-I-" For the first time in hours she tries to speak, but her throat closes and her voice fails her. Again.

She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, her friend's comforting hand massaging her shoulder, coaxing her to speak.

But her voice has failed her. Just like it failed him. And when she opens her eyes all she sees is the woman in the purple coat. That poor woman in the purple coat, whose life is crashing down around her. And she thinks to herself. How sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HippyDragonGirl mentioned in her review on Fanfiction.net that she wouldn't have fallen back on her routines. The word "zombiefied" was used. And honestly I'm the same way. So I decided to explore the opposite reaction. Castle falls back on routines, Beckett goes catatonic.
> 
> Now I'm torn on the possibility of a third "happy conclusion" chapter for this. On the one hand, I want the happy ending as much as you all seem to want it. But on the other hand, I keep thinking about Stana calling Blue Butterfly the best possible ending for the Castle-Beckett relationship and I essentially view this as the worst. A part of me wants to stay true to that. Of course the other part of me wants them to get together and have a bunch of Caskett babies. So we'll see what happens. As of now I am planning a conclusion. But I'm making no promises.
> 
> And remember reviews make the writer happy, and by that I mean more in the mood to write happy endings ;) As always, a simple "like" or "dislike" will suffice.
> 
> Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone


	3. Hope

He told himself not to regret his decision. But he can't stop the feeling from creeping down around him like sludge. It drips, thick and uncomfortable over his skin, until the slime clings to every inch of him. He feels filthy. He feels cruel.

The darkness that has always lurked at the edge of his consciousness feeds on the regret and he struggles to fend it off. He's fought this battle his whole life. But today he finds the darkness getting the best of him. Because he was wrong that first night. Life doesn't go on. At least not like it used to.

Life drags. Like pulling dead weight. And he finds himself in that familiar place, that dark place where light has no home and all good thoughts are suffocated by regret.

His apartment is toxic, lifeless, haunted by ghosts of moments past. So he forces himself away from it, away from the shadows that reign in that tainted space.

He's never been one for solitary walks or long strolls. His excitable temperament was never suited to it. But today he needs to get out.

So he decides to take a walk.

The city streets buzz like they always do, even in the chill of a winter's day. He feeds off that energy, watches people closely as they go about their business, skipping over murky puddles of melting snow as they rush by. It's a wonder to think how separate their lives all are. He can brush alongside them in the street but what do they share besides an impression. There a man with sharp black coat covering his tailored suit, bluetooth in his ear, Iphone in his hand. Does he love his wife more than his job? Here a woman drowning in an oversized windbreaker that was clearly plucked from the 90s. Is she living in the past?

Who is he to them? A stranger in a brown wool coat walking aimlessly down the street, alone. Does he know where he's going?

No, he doesn't. And that is the problem. Where does he go from here? How does he start a new life? A life without her.

He thought that knowing, having a resolution, an answer set in stone, would be better than the limbo. But the grass is always greener on the other side. Ignorance may not be bliss, but it certainly wasn't agony.

The darkness finds him even here. The doubt joins the regret to build dark clouds overhead. Another relationship failed. Another love lost. Does he give his heart too easily? Why does he always entrust it to women who are only capable of breaking it?

Eventually the city gives way to nature. He doesn't know what led him towards this place, where so many memories with her were made. But there it is. Central Park. An oasis in a concrete tundra.

The trees are mostly barren, leaves overcome by the bitter cold of winter, but there is a row of evergreens siting proudly in the distance, showing off their colorful needles. He marvels at their resolve. To survive a New York winter is a feat in and of itself. But then again, they are made for that. They are built to withstand the worst of cold fronts. They are made to survive.

He wonders if that can be said of people. Some people are built like evergreens, stoic and strong even through the darkest of winters, while others are not. Just the same some trees aren't built for the winter. Their leaves must die, their branches must must be stripped bare until the spring returns. And with spring comes life. A cycle with its ups and downs, but at least there are ups. For every down, a glorious up. The evergreens may keep their color, but they are never as beautiful - as rivetingly beautiful - as the ambers of the fall.

He sits down on a bench beside those evergreens overlooking the half-frozen Turtle Pond. The cold of the metal rises through his clothes, chilling him. The wind cuts through his exposed skin. He stares across the expanse of ice and snow. And he thinks. Thinks about her. Thinks about himself. Thinks about all that went wrong.

He had thought that this time would be different. He had thought that she'd be different.

But that isn't fair. She is different, because this time he feels like it was worth it. He knows it with a certainty he wishes were less apparent. She was worth it. Even as he sits, stripped bare and desolate, he knows that she was worth it.

And he realizes with dread that he would trade a thousand days of misery for just one more minute – one platonic, frustrating, unresolved minute – with her.

Some bit of her, whatever small amount she had to give, was better than nothing.

And even though he has nothing now, for the first time he allows himself to reflect on what he did have. He closes his eyes and sees her, bright and smiling, all those moments that made him love her so completely. The darkness can't touch that. He won't allow it to. Not anymore.

He thinks back to a conversation he had with his mother.

"Was I wrong? Did I do something wrong?"

"Richard, Kate has been working through issues that I assure you were there long before you came around and are well beyond your control. You cannot blame yourself for that."

"But I pushed her..."

"Have you thought that maybe she needed to be pushed?"

"I pushed her away."

"No, Richard, you pushed her forward," she grabbed his hands and forced his eyes to hers. "I've always said that the universe has a way of sorting itself out. Maybe, letting her go is a necessary step. Maybe she needs to see what she's missing."

"She gave me her answer."

"No, Richard, she didn't. She didn't give you an answer at all."

The words didn't comfort him at the time, because in the face of rejection all he could hear was the message in her silence. Yet somehow he can see the truth in those words now as he stares at the ice-covered water, knowing that the turtles lurk silently somewhere out of sight. Even if they aren't ready to poke their heads out at this moment, they are there. They are never gone forever.

The clouds have held steady all morning, but they finally give way to a light and steady snow. He decides he's had enough of the cold and begins the huddled journey back to his apartment, feeling lightened by the acknowledgment that their story may yet have chapters to be written.

Because he does miss her. And he's allowed to miss her. He's still allowed to dream about feeling her quivering skin under his palm, or sliding a gold band onto her finger, or pressing his hand to her pregnant belly searching for the restless kicks of their child. He's allowed to still want her, even if he can't have her right now or ever.

He can't take back his words. But he doesn't have to nor does he want to. The cold and the trees and the pond have given him clarity. He accepts what had to be done. He accepts that sometimes the hurt is necessary, a necessary step towards something greater. And most of all he accepts that "something greater" might not involve Kate Beckett at all.

But that doesn't mean he can't hold onto hope.

Because maybe, just maybe, her answer is not as set in stone as he'd feared. Maybe it's just trapped beneath the ice.

He makes his way past the now white-speckled trees, enjoying the stillness of the park. His shoes leave imprints in the fresh layer of snow, joining the collage of millions of people in this city. All of them struggling to find answers in the silence and the noise just as he is. He is not alone.

That gives him hope.

It must. Because hope fights off the darkness. Hope keeps his heart light. Hope makes it easier to take each step. It lightens the weight that had been dragging behind him since that night.

He hopes that she finds her answers. He hopes that she opens herself to happiness, with whomever can bring it to her. He hopes that maybe one day, when the sun is shining and the trees are green, that she will look out the window and realize that person could be him.

As he resolves to wait just a bit longer – from afar – for that day to come, he remembers those trees in Central Park, the ones with the barren branches. He remembers how they are not dead. They are simply waiting. Waiting for better, warmer days. They too survive the winter, worse for wear than the evergreens, but they still survive. So will he.

And when the spring comes and his leaves sprout anew, he can only hope that she will have made her way back to him, out of her hibernation and into the comfort of his shade.

He hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one really fought me tooth and nail, but it finally came around thanks in no small part to dave-ck who was my sounding board one night and helped me make sense of what I was trying to say. He also gets credit for one particular line, but he should be able to figure out which one that is ;)
> 
> There is another Kate POV on the way. So keep an eye out.
> 
> As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, even if it's just a simple "like" or "dislike."
> 
> Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone


	4. Belief

She's never had her heart broken. Not by a man at least.

She's experienced trauma. She's lived through her mother's death. She's watched her father spiral into a depression and nearly kill himself with alcohol. She's sat through so many soul crushing interviews with the families of her victims that she's lost count. She's killed in the line of duty. She's stared down the barrel of the gun, the point of a knife, the ticking clock of a bomb.

She's even been shot in the heart. But she's never had it broken.

Because to have your heart broken, shattered in two, stamped into the dust like all the stories say, you have to give it to someone. Someone who can and does break it.

She's never given her heart to someone. So it can't possibly be broken.

Can it?

The piecing notes of her alarm draw her out of sleep. She wakes. Eyes opened quickly. Somehow alert even through the haze.

It's time to wake up. Time to face the day. She managed yesterday. And she'll manage again.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, the momentum pulling her torso upright. Her bare feet meet soft carpet and there's no turning back.

She stands, sways a moment, then takes her first step, straight for the kitchen where coffee awaits.

The digital clock on the face of her coffee machine, set on a delay to be fully brewed by the time she wakes, gleams green in the morning shadows, a beacon.

She fills her mug, adds vanilla flavored creamer, and takes a long, luxurious sip. Then she stops, as she did the morning before, and the morning before that. It's not the same. Coffee is not the same.

And her chest squeezes painfully. She has to take a deep breath. Close her eyes. Find her balance. It  _hurts_.

But she soldiers on. Because that is what Kate Beckett does. She soldiers on.

She pads over to the front door to retrieve the newspaper. She pulls it inside and sits with it and her inadequate cup of coffee at the table.

The front page is nondescript. Politics here, economy there, a study proving something or another causes cancer beneath the fold. She skims it as she sips her coffee slowly, allowing this distraction to delay the start of the day a bit longer. Allowing news of the world outside to fill up the emptiness that consumes her.

When the drink is gone, she knows it's time to move. No more delays. She drops the mug into the sink, pledging to wash it in the evening when she returns. Then she makes her way into the bathroom where she goes through the well-rehearsed process of her morning routine. She brushes her teeth quickly and flosses with similar speed. No nonsense. She runs a brush through her hair, decides to wear it up as she can't be bothered to style it. Then she sets out her make up. She smooths on foundation, pencils on eyeliner, brushes on mascara, paints on lipstick and pats on blush. The mask she'll use to fool them that she's no worse for wear, despite the memories that hit her at random. The memories that force her to leave the room to hide the nausea of remembering him. Regretting him. Missing him. It  _hurts_.

She tells them it's heart burn. And maybe that's not as much of a lie as it should be.

She wanders back into her bedroom and stares at her closet for a moment. Too many options to chose from and no one to impress, so she goes with simple. A pair of navy slacks and a white button down blouse. Practical. Ordinary. She wriggles into them only slightly concerned when they hang ever so loosely.

After slipping into a pair of black high-heeled boots, she makes her way to her dresser and the wooden box sitting on top.

She opens it, sees the watch and the ring. Her parents. And not for the first time she envies them. Their happiness, even if it was cut tragically short.

Except this time, she hears his voice in her head.

_You could be happy, Kate. You deserve to be happy._

And her heart clenches again. Worse than before. Because she doesn't believe those words. She wants to. She wants to believe them so badly. But she can't stop the doubt that grasps her, the fear that holds her head beneath the water. She gave up on happy long ago.

Because she thought she knew what happy was. When she was just a girl and could look at her parents and point out all the ways she wanted to be just like them. When happy wasn't just a maybe, it was real, tangible, right there in their clasped hands. When she could point to them and say, "There, that. That is what I want when I grow up."

She picks up the ring and traces the elegant curve of the band with her pinky. This was happy once. A symbol of love. Now it sits on her chest, a reminder of what can be lost.

Because Joanna Beckett died, and for a time, Jim Beckett died with her. And Kate learned that happiness is fleeting. That love is fragile. Dangerous even. Because happiness, love, life can be crushed in the most cruel ways.

And she resolved to never feel that again. She resolved to never allow her heart to be broken the way her father's was.

Yet here she is. Heart still in a box, hidden out of reach of those who would harm it.

It shouldn't be broken...It shouldn't hurt this much.

But it does.

_I love you, and either that's enough or it isn't._

It was never about his love being enough. It was about that love being worth the potential pain, the loss, the heartache.

She never said that it wasn't. But she also never said that it  _was_. Because she'd held onto the belief that no love equaled no pain.

She was wrong.

She was so caught up in the fear of diving in and drowning, that she didn't realize she was already swimming in the deep end. In a foolish attempt to save herself the possibility of losing him, she did just that. She lost him. Despite all of her defenses. Despite her insistence that keeping her distance might minimize the pain. It was all an illusion. She'd been all in from the start.

And it  _hurts_ because her heart is broken. Protected, yet still utterly broken.

It came out of nowhere and slammed into her like a semi. Not because his ultimatum was anything she didn't expect. She'd been expecting it for awhile. She'd been preparing, raising her shields and bracing for impact from the moment she met him.

But that didn't stop the pain. It sent her into shock. Reeling. Down and out.

For the first time she asks herself: Why? Why down? Why out?

She's a fighter. She's always been a fighter. So why not fight now? Why not fight for this? Why not? What does she have to lose? Her heart is already broken...what does she have to lose?

She looks down at her father's watch. At the life that she saved. The life that she fought to save.

_Why not, Kate?_  His voice eggs her on.  _It's either enough or it isn't._

And it is. His love is enough. She believes it, because she's lived without it for weeks. She's lived with the suffocating pain that took its place for weeks. And it's enough. Knowing that he loves her, that she loves him, and yes, she does love him. She loves him against her will. But she loves him all the same.

And she believes that that's enough. She believes. And  _that_ is enough.

She believes.

So she nixes her routine, tries something different. She puts down her mother's ring, sets it beside her father's watch in that beautiful little box. A box full of love and loss and happy. And she goes out to face her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - This was rewritten/reworked three times, and finally I'm happy with it. But fear not, this is not the end. At least one more chapter is coming down the line. Many thanks to fooxoo for giving me clarity. And to dave-ck for forcing me to dig deeper, for always asking the right questions, a thousand thanks plus a thousand more still aren't enough. You rock.
> 
> No need to review this time, I'm so over those things...hahaha, as if. I live for the reviews, so please keep them coming. As always I cherish even a simple "Like" or "Dislike" so don't be shy. Tell me what you think.
> 
> Fight On and You'll Never Walk Alone


	5. Everyday

Believing is a lot easier said than done, she muses as she stands in the hallway staring at the wood paneled floors, sleek and modern. Typical of these upscale New York apartments. She pauses. Breathes. Then continues on her way, just two doors down the way. She's not sure she can do this. But she's going to anyway.

His loft. His lair. The dark metal door shines her reflection back towards her and she sees what he sees. She sees what she wants him to see. A woman who believes. A woman who is ready to take the plunge. Scared as hell, but willing to try.

She knocks...and knocks, louder. But there is no answer. Is she too late? Is this how it is between them now? Is she no longer welcome in his home? She taps her fist on her thigh nervously and bites her lip.

"Get over there and talk to him." She hears Lanie in her head. Yeah, that's working out great Lanie. Thanks. She's just about to turn, give up and move on, but the door swings open with a huff. And a shock of red hair greats her.

"Alexis?"

"Oh, uh, Detective Beckett."

They stare at each other, awkward, silent.

"Wha- uh- is- uh" She flounders.

Alexis seems to do no better. Gaping.

"I was- uh, you know what never mind. I'm just- yeah. I- Bye."

She turns and rushes towards the elevator. She'd forgotten that his daughter could be home. Miscalculated. She should have just called. But she didn't because saying what she needs to say is hard enough without not being able to see him. She needs to be able to read him, for him to read her. Words aren't enough. He needs to see.

But he's not there to see.

She feels like an idiot, blabbering in front of his daughter, not having a plan. She likes to have things under control. But this was definitely not planned. And it feels like a bad idea now. A reckless move. Stupid.

She taps impatiently at the elevator call button. She needs to get out of here, regroup, devise a new, better strategy. One that doesn't involve spontaneously showing up at his place like a raving madwoman.

The elevator pings, the doors open, and there he is.

"Castle," she breathes his name.

"Kate?" Still Kate. That's a good sign, right?

"I- uh. Hi."

He nods his own greeting, clearly a bit stunned to see her. "Hi. What's going on? Is everything okay?"

She's thirteen again. Stuttering and speechless because of a boy.

"Yeah, I- uh. Can I come in for a second?"

He nods. His questioning gaze smothers her like a pillow. She can't breathe. But she manages to follow him back to his door, which he unlocks before beckoning her in, still watching with uncertainty.

Alexis is in the kitchen, but she dismisses herself after a quick hug with her dad and a prying look between them. And not for the first time Kate thinks how painfully awkward this whole ordeal is. Even his daughter is in on it.

They stand there. Suspended in time. Stiff, uncomfortable, strained time. She bounces from toe to heel nervously for a second. Wipes her sweating hands against her slacks.

She takes him in. He looks good. A bit scruffy like he doesn't make the effort to shave all the time. But good. She should have dressed up for this. What was she thinking?

"How have you been?" He asks finally, hands in the pockets of the coat that he never bothered to take off – so she wouldn't take off her own perhaps?

The thought that he might not want her to stay propels her leap off the cliff. Because she needs him to know. She needs to convince him that she wants to stay.

"My coffee sucks."

He furrows his brow, mouth suspended in the beginning of a "What?"

"Without you. My coffee sucks...without you." She feels awkward. So awkward. She wishes she'd thought harder about this. About what she wanted to say. Because this is possibly the most important conversation of her life and she's mucking it up with fragments and non sequiturs. "And it's not enough- the coffee. The bad coffee. It's not enough, to live without- good coffee."

She's wringing her hands, and her legs are restless, twitchy, and he's still staring at her like she's nuts and she wants to run, crawl back into bed and hide, from him, from this. But then she'd just be back where she was weeks ago. Miserable and alone. It's now or never and she's had enough of never.

"I don't-" He starts.

"I love you," she bursts out, stopping him before she can stop herself. "It's enough. And I'm an idiot for thinking it wasn't. Because it is. And I know that now. I believe that now. And I know that it's too late. I know that I should have said something but I didn't believe then. But now I do. I don't want to go through life afraid of being broken anymore. I don't want to be that person who's old and alone and regretful because they threw away something good- something great. I want what my parents had and I want what we have. I want it all and I'm not going to be afraid of it anymore. Because I love you. I love you and you said you love me, a-and if that's still true, oh god if it's still true Castle then it's enough. It's more than enough. It's everything."

She finally breathes. And the air is glorious in her lungs. But her heart is pounding and he's still staring at her blankly.

And they stand there. Suspended in time. Painful, edgy, unforgiving time.

"Prove it."

"What?" She blinks. Is that a yes?

"Prove it. Everyday."

"Prove it?"

"You have to mean it, Kate. I can't go through this again. You're either in or out, but it's all the way, all the time. No more hiding behind silence. No more running when it gets tough. You have to mean it – Everyday. Can you do that? Can it be enough everyday?"

"Yes," she answers without hesitation.

He dissects her with his eyes, and she feels herself laid bare. The words were just a part, but not the whole. He has to see. She has to make him see.

"Yes?"

"Always." She closes the distance between them, grabs the back of his head and pulls him down for a kiss. The first of many steps towards forging a new routine – one in which she is honest with him, with herself.

Hands threaded in his hair, she pours everything into showing him. He brings his arms up to embrace her and responds with his frustration, his doubt, his anger. She wants to wash that all away with this kiss. Then spend the rest of her life proving that everyday is possible. She's a one and done girl, his third time is a charm and their new lives start now.

**Author's Note:**

> Routines (or Castle Gets Ready for Bed as I've taken to calling it) flowed out during a free writing exercise and since it was mostly coherent I just decided to polish it up a bit into a one-shot. I was slightly inspired by reflecting on loss recently. My cousin lost his wife of one year suddenly to an aneurysm in December and it got me thinking about how we deal with devastating loss. Everything may be falling apart around us, but we still have to brush our teeth. It's an odd thing to think about. Something else to note, I don't believe Castle would come to the point of giving Beckett an ultimatum like this. And if he did I totally believe that she'd jump into his arms in an instant rather than lose him. But people surprise us all the time so this is a what-if-they-were-both-colossal-idiots scenario.
> 
> As always I'd appreciate reviews, even a simple "like" or "dislike."
> 
> Fight On for Ol' SC and You'll Never Walk Alone


End file.
